The man who put his hand on my arm did so in a completely friendly manner, and I recalled him as being one of the group standing around the table during the play. There was something faintly familiar about him, but even quite famous faces are disregarded at a baccarat table; one is not there to collect autographs. The man holding my arm was short, heavy, swarthy and of a type to cause instant distaste on the part of any discerning observer. What caught and held my attention was that he addressed me by name — and in French. “M’sieu Huuygens?” he said. To my absolute amazement, he pronounced it correctly. I acknowledged that I was, indeed, M’sieu Kek Huuygens. “I should like to talk with you a moment and to buy you a drink,” he said.
“I could use one,” I admitted, and I allowed him to lead me into the bar. As we went, I noticed two men who had been standing to one side studying their fingernails; they now moved with us and took up new positions to each side, still studying their nails. One would think that fingernails were a subject that could quickly bore, but apparently not to those two. As I sat down beside my chubby host, I looked at him once more, and suddenly recognition came.
He saw the light come on in the little circle over my head and smiled, showing a dazzling collection of white teeth, a tribute to the art of the dental laboratory.
“Yes,” he said, “I am Antoine Duvivier,” and waved over a waiter. We ordered and I returned my attention to him. Duvivier, as you must know — even newspapermen listen to the radio, I assume — was the president of the island of St. Michel in the Caribbean, or had been until his loyal subjects decided that presidents should be elected, after which he departed in the middle of the night, taking with him most of his country’s treasury. He could see the wheels turning in my head as I tried to see how I could use this information to my advantage, and I must say he waited politely enough while I was forced to give up on the problem. Then he said, “I have watched you play at baccarat.”
We received our drinks and I sipped, waiting for him to go on.
“You are quite a gambler, M’sieu Huuygens,” he said, “but, of course, you would have to be, in your line of work.” He saw my eyebrows go up and added quite coolly, “Yes, M’sieu Huuygens, I have had you investigated, and thoroughly. But please permit me to explain that it was not done from idle curiosity. I am interested in making you a proposition.”
I find, in situations like this, the less said the better, so I said nothing.
“Yes,” he went on, “I should like to offer you—” He paused, as if reconsidering his words, actually looking embarrassed, as if he were guilty of a gaffe. “Let me rephrase that,” he said and searched for a better approach. At last he found it. “What I meant was, I should like to make a wager with you, a wager I am sure should be most interesting to a gambler such as yourself.”
This time, of course, I had to answer, so I said, “Oh?”
“Yes,” he said, pleased at my instant understanding. “I should like to wager twenty thousand dollars of my money, against two dollars of yours, that you will not bring a certain object from the Caribbean through United States Customs and deliver it to me in New York City.”
I must admit I admire bluntness, even though the approach was not particularly unique. “The odds are reasonable,” I admitted. “One might even say generous. What type of object are we speaking of?”
He lowered his voice. “It is a carving,” he said “A Tien Tse Huwai, dating back to eight centuries before Christ. It is of ivory and is not particularly large; I imagine it could fit into your coat pocket, although, admittedly, it would be bulky. It depicts a village scene — but you, I understand, are an art connoisseur; you may have heard of it. In translation, its name is The Village Dance.” Normally, I can control my features, but my surprise must have shown, for Duvivier went on in the same soft voice. “Yes, I have it. The carving behind that glass case in the St. Michel National Gallery is a copy — a plastic casting, excellently done, but a copy. The original is at the home of a friend in Barbados. I could get it that far, but I was afraid to attempt bringing it the rest of the way; to have lost it would have been tragic. Since then, I have been looking for a man clever enough to get it into the States without being stopped by Customs.” He suddenly grinned, those white blocks of teeth almost blinding me. “I am offering ten-thousand-to-one odds that that clever man is not you.”
It was a cute ploy, but that was not what interested me at the moment.
“M’sieu,” I said simply, “permit me a question: I am familiar with the Tien Village Dance. I have never seen it, but it received quite a bit of publicity when your National Gallery purchased it, since it was felt — if you will pardon me — that the money could have been used better elsewhere. However, my surprise a moment ago was not that you have the carving; it was at your offer. The Tien, many years in the future, may, indeed, command a large price, but the figure your museum paid when you bought it was, as I recall, not much more than the twenty thousand dollars you are willing to — ah — wager to get it into this country. And that value could only be realized at a legitimate sale, which would be difficult, it seems to me, under the circumstances.”
Duvivier’s smile had been slowly disappearing as I spoke. Now he was looking at me in disappointment.
“You do not understand, m’sieu,” he said, and there was a genuine touch of sadness in his voice at my incogitancy. “To you, especially after your losses tonight, I am sure the sum of twenty thousand dollars seems a fortune, but, in all honesty, to me it is not. I am not interested in the monetary value of the carving; I have no intention of selling it. I simply wish to own it.” He looked at me with an expression I have seen many times before — the look of a fanatic, a zealot. A Collector, with a capital C. “You cannot possibly comprehend,” he repeated, shaking his head. “It is such an incredibly lovely thing...”
Well, of course, he was quite wrong about my understanding, or lack of it; I understood perfectly. For a moment, I almost found myself liking the man; but only for a moment. And a wager is a wager, and I had to admit I had never been offered such attractive odds before in my life. As for the means of getting the carving into the United States, especially from Barbados, I had a thought on that, too. I was examining my idea in greater detail when his voice broke in on me.
“Well?” he asked, a bit impatiently.
“You have just made yourself a bet,” I said. “But it will require a little time.”
“How much time?” Now that I was committed, the false friendliness was gone from both voice and visage; for all practical purposes, I was now merely an employee.
I thought a moment. “It’s hard to say. It depends,” I said at last. “Less than two months but probably more than one.”
He frowned. “Why so long?” I merely shrugged and reached for my glass. “All right,” he said grudgingly. “And how do you plan on getting it through Customs?” My response to this was to smile at him gently, so he gave up. “I shall give you a card to my friend in Barbados, which will release the carving into your care. After that” — he smiled again, but this time it was a bit wolfish for my liking — “our wager will be in effect. We will meet at my apartment in New York.”